Know Thyself: Scenes from a Secret Romance
by A Lucky Stone
Summary: Leo Tolstoy's 'War and Peace'. Pierre Bezuhov and Prince Andrei Bolkonsky are alike in only one way: neither fits into the life set out for him. They form an unlikely friendship that turns into a lot more. Warnings: slash, dodginess in chapter 2 :D
1. Chapter 1

Scene 1: 1804. A ballroom in Paris, France.

Pierre later blamed his shyness, which had kept him off the dancefloor. Andrei, smiling, blamed Pierre's clumsiness, his inattention, or his own aversion to dancing. To anybody else, there would have seemed no need for a reason: it was an accident, albeit one with unusual and far reaching consequences.

Pierre picked a way around the edge of the ballroom, his eyes on the dancers in apprehension, and not on where he was going. He walked right into the shorter man stood by a window. "Oh, I beg your pardon!"

Andrei looked across at the young man who'd just bumped into him. He was blushing furiously, trying to look smaller than his impressive height, and barely out of his teens. Andrei smiled coolly, and replied in accented French, "There is no need – you were watching the dancing, as any man might, and not your steps."

"Oh! You're a Russian!" the young man exclaimed suddenly. "I recognise the accent of a countryman – I'm Russian, too, you see, only I have lived here in Paris for the last two and a half years."

"Is that true?" The prince raised an eyebrow at the young man's eagerness. "That would be why I took you for a Frenchman at first."

"I hope my Russian is not suffering," Pierre replied, his blush fading, and added in that tongue, "My name is Pierre – Piotr Kirillovich Bezuhov."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," replied Andrei, in Russian and in a tone that implied it was not. "Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky – you are the son of Count Bezuhov?" _Illegitimate, but likely to be heir to the title all the same, and sent abroad to be educated in preparation as much as to keep him out of the way – if the rumours were true, _Andrei mused.

"Y-yes," Pierre replied, and that slight stammer gave Andrei all the information he needed. Pierre blushed again, knowing the prince would know all about his position. However, Andrei let the matter drop, and their conversation passed onto the more mundane topics of Russian and Parisian life.

Prince Andrei would have left it at that – their acquaintance a brief one, to be renewed only at society functions and the occasional dinner party, like the majority of his relationships. He was unsure what he thought of the overly eager and awkward young man.

But Pierre called on him the week following their first meeting, looking for more news of his homeland. Andrei returned the visit as courtesy required, and found himself agreeing to dine with Pierre. They talked – of politics, of religion, of history. Pierre's need for an explanation, a rationalisation, a discussion of everything from their own meeting to ancient battles bemused Andrei. Sometimes it frustrated him, but nonetheless he became fond of Pierre, and his company, and the way the younger man looked up to him. He entered into conversations with Pierre he would not have dared to have with anyone else, and never-ending arguments made hopeless by his stubbornness and Pierre's earnest conviction.

There was one argument that changed everything.


	2. Chapter 2

Scene 2: 1804. Andrei's study. Paris, France.

"What does it all matter, anyway?" Andrei said suddenly, twirling his wine glass in pale fingers. "What does it matter about society, about what they think? They're so **fickle**," he sneered, "Opinion changes every damned **month**."

Pierre was taken aback by the sudden shift in his friend's mood. They'd been discussing the rumoured flirtations and indiscretions of a notable society lady, one who was supposedly happily married. Andrei had seemed his usual disdainful self – not angry. He didn't know what to say, but Andrei wasn't waiting for an answer; he got up and began to pace the room.

"You're **nothing** here, unless you're someone in society," he said, putting down his wine and gesticulating with both hands. "And God knows Petersburg is worse – you're lucky not to know it, Pierre – there's no one there with any heart, with any thought beyond themselves and their own advancement in life. I can't stand the place," he added in a tone of evident frustration, "but I have no choice but to return."

Pierre barely caught the last words, they were spoken so quietly, and rose to his feet to question his friend. But before he had the chance to speak, Andrei was looking at him with burning eyes, and he froze under that stern gaze.

"Tell me, Pierre, what other path is there? I have to return, but I dread it – and Paris is not even much better." He stared blankly ahead, through and past Pierre. "What is the point in all this?" he asked quietly. "That's what I can't figure out – and I… It seems I have no choice."

"Andrei," Pierre protested, "What are you saying? Of course you have a choice, there are people other than society followers to acquaint yourself with – why, I could name a dozen perfectly good respectable men, who're nothing like you say – "

His attempt at calming the prince down wasn't working. Andrei turned to him, expression dark, his accent more obvious in his hasty French. "Of course you'd say that," he spat, pacing towards him, "You're so blind, sometimes, Pierre, can't see anything for wanting to see the best in people," he continued, his voice rising steadily. Pierre stepped back apprehensively. Andrei carried on, almost shouting now. "People aren't how you want them to be! You can't make the world how you want it, and you can't change something as fundamental – as – this!" He fell silent.

Pierre looked down at him, pressed against the wall; the older man had pinned his wrists to it with a firm grasp. Andrei looked back, the anger fading from his face. He took a step back, releasing Pierre's wrists and dropping his gaze. Muttering something to himself, he crossed back to the couch and sat down, shoulders hunched, his expression hidden.

Pierre began to breathe normally again. He watched the dark haired man, and after a few seconds moved towards him. "Andrei?" he asked, reaching to touch his shoulder as he sat down beside him.

The prince looked up. His expression was like none Pierre had seen him wear before, a mixture of grief, and confusion, and something that was almost fear. Pierre felt a slim hand cup his jaw. He looked at Andrei in bewilderment, but his friend's face was suddenly inscrutable. Pierre watched him – and then Andrei leaned in and kissed him on the lips.

Pierre froze, transfixed by the sensation of unexpectedly soft, warm lips on his. Andrei sat back and opened his eyes. "May I?" he asked, with an odd note of shyness in his voice. All Pierre could do was nod.

He closed his eyes as the prince kissed him again. Andrei's hand slid round to the back of his head, the other settling on his waist. Pierre's body seemed no longer under his control. He – or whoever else was controlling his body – followed Andrei's lead, opening his mouth at the gentle probing of Andrei's tongue. His large hands felt awkward held in his lap; he placed them either side of Andrei's narrow waist. The prince responded with a sigh, shifting closer to him on the couch.

His kiss became fiercer, their tongues entwined, his fingers twisting and tugging gently at Pierre's hair.

In the clearer regions of the young man's mind, an idle thought formed – what did Andrei's hair feel like? He reached up a hand, dreamlike, without realising what he was doing. _So soft_… He almost gasped in surprise. He was learning a lot about Andrei today that he'd never expected to find out, he reflected absentmindedly stroking the dark curls.

Andrei pulled back and smiled at him. Pierre could feel his heart pounding in his chest and he didn't know why. Eyes bright, Andrei pushed Pierre backwards onto the couch. Repositioning their legs so that neither fell off the sofa took a few moments and ended with Andrei more or less lying on top of Pierre.

Pierre blushed at his reaction to that position. Andrei kissed him again, shifting his weight, and Pierre found that the other man was as aroused as he was. The intimate contact sent a thrill through his body, more so when Andrei began to move as they kissed, building friction.

Though physically strong, Pierre was powerless. He held Andrei tightly, pulling him close until the dark-haired man gasped. His kisses slowed. He lifted his head and looked Pierre in the eye, face flushed and breathing hard. Andrei removed one hand from Pierre's shoulder and traced the line of his shirt buttons. Pulling the shirt out from the waistband of his trousers, he undid them and with a deft movement slipped his hand beneath the cloth.

Pierre gasped at the touch, thrusting into his hand, his pulse racing. He moaned in ecstasy, unable to speak, hoping to convey urgency by his eyes alone. Andrei must have understood – Pierre came a few seconds later with a shudder and a cry that the prince swallowed with a kiss.

Slowly Pierre regained his breath. Opening his eyes, he saw Andrei looking down at him in impatience. Holding his gaze, the prince moved a hand downwards again, pressing against him. Every muscle in his body was rigid in frustration. Andrei's hand caught his, guided it between their bodies. He felt hot skin. Andrei's eyes widened at the touch. His slim hand fitted over Pierre's large one, leading him to where he ached for the contact.

The young man's other hand settled at Andrei's waist, feeling the taut muscles beneath his heated skin. He never took his eyes off the prince's face.

Something more than excitement bubbled in Pierre's chest as he saw how he could make Andrei's expression change, how he could bring him pleasure. By his face he could judge what was effective, and soon he had the prince gasping from his every movement. Andrei tensed, and jerked, and relaxed, his lips parting silently.

In that moment, he was beautiful.


	3. Chapter 3

Scene 3: 1804. Andrei's study. Paris, France.

"Why are you doing this?" Pierre leaned against a bookcase and watched his lover pack his books into chests and trunks.

"You know why," Andrei replied, not looking up at him. "I told you, I have to."

"You don't." The young man frowned. "Why won't you discuss this? We need to talk about it…"

"We do not need to talk." Andrei stood up abruptly, glaring at Pierre. "There's nothing to talk about. You **knew** I was engaged, we both knew this would happen. Don't deny it."

"But – can't you stay, just a while longer? Andrei, please -"

He slammed the lid down on the trunk. Pierre was frowning at him, looking like an animal in distress, helplessness radiating from his expression. Andrei scowled. He pushed down the lump in his throat that threatened to break out, break down, declare his love for Pierre, promise to stay by his side – ignored it as romantic nonsense. He spoke in a controlled voice. "I have a duty. This is my family, my career, my future and theirs that we're talking about."

"I know!"

Andrei realised he'd been underestimating Pierre, and sighed.

"Of course you have to leave, but please – Andrusha – can we **please **talk about this?"

The childish nickname made him wince internally. "I… don't want to. What is there to talk about?" He turned back to the books, their solidity and musty smell vaguely comforting. "I'm going back to Petersburg, I'm getting married, surely that's it? How complicated do you want to make this?"

He knew Pierre's expression without seeing him, by the tone of his voice as he replied. "What about me? Are you just going to leave me here?"

"I'll write to you." But it wasn't enough; he knew that. "I'm **sorry**, Pierre, there's nothing I can do." Andrei turned to look at him again, dark eyes serious. "I think you should go now."

"But you leave tomorrow." His eyes said incredulity and alarm, even if his voice was level.

"Yes. I need to pack."

"I can help."

"No. Pierre, really – I need you to go." Andrei forced himself to think rational thoughts. Though his heart was pounding and it was hard to force out the words, he kept speaking. "You won't be able to persuade me so you might as well leave." The words were too harsh, he knew, but hoped Pierre would believe them.

The young man looked sulky and hurt. The prince wouldn't meet his gaze; he crossed the room and opened the door for him.

Pierre sighed and came over to Andrei. Closing his eyes, he took Andrei's chin in his hand and kissed him forcefully. Andrei couldn't help but kiss back. He sighed, filled with regret.

Pierre let go of him and stepped back. "Remember me, then," he said reluctantly.

"We will see each other again," replied Andrei in a moment of sudden prophetic inspiration. Pierre looked doubtful. His body language shrieked 'ask me to stay', but Andrei couldn't say it – they were past that, it was too late now.

The young prince watched his lover walk down the stairs, each step more painful than the last, and hoped that he had done the right thing.


End file.
